


Spektors

by Stillmarauding



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-15
Packaged: 2019-03-01 00:37:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 17,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13283217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stillmarauding/pseuds/Stillmarauding
Summary: Victor hasn't talked to his baby sister in over a year--not since she decided to move to New York permanently. But it all changes when he moves back to St. Petersburg, his new fiancee in tow, only to find her once more in the city she'd abandoned.





	1. Remembering

Sometimes in the silence of an unfamiliar hotel room, Victor would lie back on the lumpy mattress and remember. He'd made a sort of game out of it, seeing how far back he could go if he strained at the half-formed images, more feelings than anything else.

He remembered the apartment in Khimki, small, but bright, the furniture made of oak. He remembered his father's voice, deep, commanding, a voice that always caused a little pocket of dread in the pit of Victor's stomach. There was no face to go with the voice, but he remembered his father's shoes—big black things like boats, the leather worn but always freshly polished. He remembered the day the shoes disappeared and his mother sat at the kitchen table for hours, staring out the window at the apartment complex across the street, unmoving, regardless of what Victor did.

He remembered his mother. Her heart-shaped face, her silver hair, her bright, sea-colored eyes. He remembered the softness of her willowy figure as her belly grew, despite the fact that he'd begun to see her eat less and less.

Every night he would sit in her lap and she would brush his hair and sing to him. Always the same song, slightly lilting, but beautiful and soothing. He remembered falling asleep to it every night, never quite hearing its ending, or feeling the soft kiss his mother pressed into his temple.

He remembered stumbling across the ice for the first time, his hands clutched tightly in his mother's hands, how she moved with such grace across the ice, as if she was floating. How when she was on the ice she smiled, really smiled her lovely, lopsided smile.

Victor remembered loving that smile more than anything.

He remembered when his mother grew too big to skate any longer, instead sitting on the side of the little ice rink, watching him glide across the ice, no longer clumsy. She'd clap as he spun and danced, making up his own routines.

"My beautiful little ice prince," she'd say to him afterwards, wrapping him in his thick wool coat. He remembered clinging to her as they walked home, a fistful of her skirt locked in his tiny fist.

He remembered when she'd brought home a little bundle of blankets and knelt down to show him the little face peeking out, rosy-cheeked and silver haired.

"Meet your baby sister, Vitya."

He'd looked up at his mother, bursting with excitement. "She looks just like me!"

His mother had laughed at that, and Victor spent hours staring at his baby sister, telling her stories and dancing for her, trying to make her smile, to make her laugh.

"Mama?" he asked one day, when his mother sat at her vanity, still and staring.

"Yes zoloste?"

"When can we take Valya skating?"

"Not for quite a while dear. Not until she can stand," she'd laughed. After that Victor spent much of his time trying to teach Valya how to stand.

He remembered finally being able to take his sister out on the ice, one of her hands clutched in his own, the other in his mother's. He remembered Valya's excited peals of laughter, the flush in his mother's cheeks, her wonderful, crooked smiled.

And then he'd shut his eyes, hard, as if he could suffocate the memories, because now he knew that was the last time they'd all be together and happy. The last time he'd see his mother smile like that.

And he'd turn over in the lumpy hotel bed, in the room that was empty but for him and the sound of his ragged breathing.


	2. The Place that We Left

_January 2017_

Leaving Japan was bittersweet—on one hand he was so excited to return home to the familiar streets of St. Petersburg, to begin training once more (whatever he told Yuri, he missed skating desperately), but on the other Hasetsu had begun to feel like the sort of home St Petersburg had never managed to—warm and inviting, filled with the faces of people he cared about and of people who cared about him.

But Yuri was coming back with him to St Petersburg, and wherever Yuri was was home.

The thought still made Victor smile uncontrollably, still sent butterflies coursing through his stomach. After everything, he was bringing Yuri, the banquet boy,  _his fiancé_ , back home with him. Yuri linked his hand through Victor's. Victor kissed him without thinking, overtaken by his love for his dark-haired beauty.

"Are you ready to go?" Yuri asked, motioning towards the gate. Victor nodded.

"Of course."

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like that? Like I don't know. Like I'm something special—"

"You're the most special, Yuri. I love you." Victor said the words with such ardent sincerity, his eyes shined with them, his lips burned with them, his heart swelled with them. He had never loved anyone like Yuri before, someone who burned as brightly.

Yuri blushed crimson. "I love you too Victor."

It took twelve hours to reach Pulkovo International airport, and even though the pair had spent the vast majority of the trip asleep in the airlines wide first class seats, they both arrived tired and travel-worn. Though Victor had originally planned to take Yuri sightseeing—there was so much to see, the palaces, the museums, the shops—the both agreed it was better to call in an early night tonight, considering they began their training the next day—Victor for the quickly approaching Russian Nationals and Yuri for the Four Continents.

Yuri shivered as he stepped out into the crisp air of his first St Petersburg winter. Victor laughed before giving him his scarf and wrapping an arm around him.

"Don't worry Katsudon, you'll be used to the cold in no time."

"I'm f-fine, r-r-really. I went to school in D-Detroit, I'm f-fine with c-cold."

"Russian cold is different, it's a superior cold—"

"Oh really, how does that work Victor?"

Victor just laughed. "You'll see Yuri. Give it a few days."

It wasn't difficult to find a taxi, and it was only a moment or two before Victor was helping the driver load their suitcases into the trunk, Yuri having already slid inside,  _not_  because he was cold, but because three people would be a hindrance. Victor didn't bother to contradict him, instead taking the opportunity to help Yuri warm up, relishing the feeling of his hands on Yuri's skin. Even after all this time it still sent an electric shock through him.

Yuri gazed, transfixed, through the cab window as they made their way through the city, pointing out various buildings, open mouthed.

The sight of Moscow train station tempered his giddiness. He turned away, tightening his grip on Yuri's hand. Yuri didn't seem to notice Victor's sudden shift in mood, still enthralled by the sights of the city.

 

 

_February 1996_

The train station was crowded, teaming with travelers bundled up against the Moscow winter. Mama knelt next to Victor, wrapping his scarf tightly around his neck. Valya lay asleep next to him in her stroller, clutching tightly to tiny stuffed puppy. Victor sniffled, tears leaking down his cheeks.

"Everything is going to be alright, my little ice prince," Mama said, slowly, soothingly, brushing away his ears with her thumb. "It's just for a little while."

"But why can't we stay here with you?"

"You're going to go stay with Coach Yakov, he's going to help you with your routines."

"Aren't you going to come too?"

"I have to look after some things back home. But I'll call you every night, okay?"

"But—"

"Vitya, I need you to promise me something."

"What, Mama?"

"Promise me you'll look after your sister, no matter what? She's going to need you zoloste."

"Of course I will. But Mama?"

"Yes my darling?"

"Who's going to look after me?"

The train whistle screeched and it began sending billowing clouds of smoke over the crowd. Mama hurried them into a carriage, quickly stowing their shared suitcase above their seats. She turned and wrapped Victor in a bone crushing hug. "I love you so so so much. Be good."

"But Mama—"

She knelt and kissed Valya on her sleeping forehead.

"Goodbye my loves."

"Mama—"

But she was gone, lost as the train pulled away from the station, lost in the clouds of grey smoke.

Victor cried on the train. Silently, but cried nonetheless, curved up against the window of the car. He watched as the landscape changed, as the air became heavy and brackish and the sky turned from grey to blue. Valya sat next to him the seat, eventually waking as they reached the outskirts of St. Petersburg.

"Vit-a? Where are we?"

"Almost at the station."

"Where is Mama?"

"Not here. She told you, remember? She's not coming, she's sending us away." Victor's voice was angry, his cheeks flushed. He turned back to the window, trying to ignore the whimpering coming from behind him.

Finally he turned, his anger melting into despair. Valya sat hunched over, crying into the back of her stuffed toy, her eyes red, her cheeks red, her tiny body shaking. Victor felt a pit in his stomach. He took a deep breath and reached out to her, tracing soothing circles on her back.

"I'm sorry Valya, I'm sorry, I was mean."

"Why is Mama sending us away? Did I do something?"

"No, you didn't. We're going to go learn to skate, remember? We're going to have a coach—"

"Why can't you teach me? I don't wanna coach Vit-a."

"How else are you going to get better then me?"

Valya cracked a smile, despite herself. Victor pulled her into a hug. She sat in his lap, looking out over the hills as they approached the city.

When the train came to a stop in Moscow Station, Victor struggled to budge their shared suitcase. Though it was wheeled he was sure it weighed more than he did. Valya tried to help, but lost her balance when she pulled too hard and fell over.

"You push your stroller, okay? I've got this."

"Okay-dokie."

Eventually they managed to get everything onto the platform, thanks to a helpful conductor that took pity on the small boy and rolled the case outside for him. Valya had taken the time to strap her stuffed dog into her stroller and stood waiting for him on the platform. She reached out her hand for his. He took it without a word.

"Mama's gonna come back for us, right?"

Her voice was quiet, as if she already feared the answer. Victor gave her hand a gentle squeeze.

 

 

_January 2017_

The foyer of Victor's apartment building was warm and bright, stylishly minimalistic in its decoration. Makkachin leapt about, happy at the familiar setting. Victor led Yuri upstairs, searching his pockets for the now-unfamiliar key that unlocked his second story apartment.

"I just want to warn you, it's probably a bit of a mess since I haven't been home in almost a year—"

"Honestly Victor, as long as you have a bed I don't care how much dust there is. I'm just ready to sleep."

"Sleep, really? You sure you don't want to—"

"Just sleep."

Victor chuckled, unlocking the door. Makkachin pushed through before the door was fully open, her barks carrying in the empty apartment. It smelled of lemons and vinegar and something else he couldn't quite place. Everything shone, utterly inviting. Even the mail lay, organized, on the counter. Victor stared at it, brows furrowed.

"Which way-?" Yuri began. Victor spun around, taking Yuri by the hand.

"Of course, right through here is the guest room, guest bathroom, my office is through there and at the end of the hall is the master bedroom," Victor said, leading him down the hall.

"Do you have guests a lot?"

"Not really. Chris and Luca visit on occasion but they prefer staying at a hotel."

"What's that," Yuri asked, motioning to a closed door. Victor paused before answering.

"Nothing. A spare room I'm in the middle of redoing."

"Oh, okay," Yuri said, crossing to the master bedroom. "Wow. Talk about a view."

"Can you believe I get to look at you every day?"

Yuri blushed. "You're ridiculous."

"But you love me."

"Lucky you," Yuri said, planting a kiss on Victor's lips. Victor, caught off-guard, raised his arms to encircle Yuri, but Yuri was already stepping away, rifling through his carry on to find his tooth paste. He crossed to the bathroom, turning on the water to brush his teeth.

The action was so simple, so mundane, and yet Victor could feel his heart swell as he watched his fiancé get ready for bed, humming to himself, softly off-key. Victor smiled widely, his eyes growing hot, threatening tears—happy tears.

It had been years since the apartment had felt like home.

"Are you going to bed, or are you just going to stand there watching me like a weirdo?" Yuri laughed, throwing himself down on the bed.

"In a few moments, I'm going to get Makka squared away, then I'll join you."  
"Mmmm," Yuri agreed, already half asleep. Victor kissed him on the temple before crossing back to the kitchen.

He picked up the stack of mail on the counter—he hadn't remembered leaving it there before he departed. Most of it was old, bank statements, a few catalogues, Versace's Summer line, Gucci's new spring—

He double checked the dates, it was definitely this spring's, the show was only a month away. He shook his head and crossed to the cabinet where he kept Makkachin's food.

"Come on girl, dinner time," Victor called, but the poodle was nowhere to be found.

"Makka? Come here! Where did you run off to?"

Victor ducked around the island, hoping to spot her on the couch. Instead she sat outside the closed door scratching and whining.

"Come on, Makka, don't you want dinner?"

Makkachin ignored him, whining louder.

"There's no one in there. She's gone. Come one, let's go eat."

She stayed planted, stubborn. Victor sighed.

"Oh, for the love of—fine, go look for yourself."

Victor opened the door and Makkachin barreled inside. Victor stood in the doorway, surveying the room. It had been ages since he'd been inside—it was still the same, the walls a bright robin's egg blue with large bay windows overlooking the Neva. Posters clung to the walls, and magazine clippings, hanging over overflowing bookcases. Colored pencils still lay on the desk, along with pans of watercolor and little bins full of charcoal. A pair of ice skates still hung from the four poster bed, right where she'd left them all those years ago.

"Come on Makka. She's gone."

Makkachin huffed before scampering from the room. Victor lingered, frozen. His eyes traced over the contents of the room, ever unchanging. He closed the door with a click.


	3. Shattered

_February 1996_

They stood on the platform for a long time, watching as all the other passengers filter out through the exits. Victor kept a tight hold on Valya's hand, unsure of what to do next. Mama had said that Coach Yakov would meet them at the station, but she hadn't told them when, or what he looked like. He'd never so much as met the man, though his mother had often talked about him from her own skating days.

"You'll love it in St. Petersburg Vitya," Mama had said as she packed up his clothes. "You'll get to go skating every single day. How wonderful will that be?"

Victor hadn't said anything.

"Vit-a?"

His sister's bell like voice broke him out of his revelry. "Yeah?"

"What if no one comes for us?"

"He's just late."

Valya stared at her feet, her eyes filling with tears. Victor froze, unsure of what to do.

"Victor? Valeriya?"

Victor turned. A tall man in a wide brimmed felt hat approached them from the other side of the platform. His face was weatherworn, set into a permanent scowl.

"Are you Coach Yakov?" Victor asked, a bubble of fear rising in his stomach. How could his mother send them to a man who looked as if he'd never learned to smile? What if this was the wrong Yakov, and not their mother's old skating coach?

" _Da._  Now let's get you kids home, Lilia made a wonderful borscht—"

"I wanna go  _home_ ," Valya wailed, stomping her foot.

"I know  _milakha_ , but you and your brother are going to be staying with me for a little bit. Just until your mama is back on her feet."

"I wanna go now! I miss home!" Valya cried, throwing her head back. Yakov knelt next to her, his weathered face somehow softer.

"You wouldn't want to go home without seeing the ocean, would you? We can go tomorrow, once you get out of lessons."

"The ocean?"

"Water for as far as you can see. What do you say? Can you be brave for a few days like your brother?"

Valya stared up at Victor, hiccoughing. She grabbed on to a fistful of his jacket. Victor wrapped his arms protectively around her. "I'm gonna be like Victor."

"That's a good girl. Now how about we get you kids back home?"

 

 

_January 2017_

Victor awoke to the smell of fried eggs. He turned over in bed, trying to remember his dream. He could remember Yakov and the train station and Valya—she'd been so small, so trusting, practically inseparable from him. And now—he shook his head and sat up, wiping the sleep from his eyes. That was a long time ago.

He fumbled for his phone, checking the time. Yuri's face smiled back at him from the lockscreen. 5:00am. Victor sighed but there was nothing to be done about it.

Victor crossed to the kitchen, still sleep-rumpled and half asleep. Yuri danced about the kitchen, listening to something on his headphones as he prepared breakfast. He still wore his pajamas and Makkachin darted between his legs hoping, no doubt, that Yuri would drop something.

"Good morning sleepy head!" Yuri cried, pulling the headphones from his ears. He planted a kiss on Victor's cheek before turning back to the stove.

"Morning. Did you go shopping?" Victor asked, seating himself at one of the barstools. Yuri shook his head.

"I wouldn't know where to start, or how to get back—I don't even have the address for this place yet. I just used what you had brought in."

"I don't remember ordering anything," Victor said, mostly to himself. Yuri slid an omelet onto a plate in front of him. Victor smiled—Yuri had made Makkachin's face out of cilantro and peppers.

"Oh, this is too cute! Thank you!" He whipped out his phone, taking a picture for Instagram. He was torn between filters, whether to emphasize the green of the cilantro or the red of the peppers or if it was better to leave it as is-

"Victor, eat it before its cold," Yuri laughed, sitting next to him with his own plate. "Instagram will wait, I can assure you."

Victor snapped a picture of Yuri, smiling widely. Yuri made a face.

"How long does it take to get to the rink? I was hoping we could get there early, get in a bit of a warm up before practice?"

"You're cute when you're nervous."

"I'm not ner—Okay, I'm a little nervous, I just want to make a good impression. I want Yakov to like me."

"Why?  _I'm_  your coach, not Yakov."

Yuri gave him a look.

"Don't worry, Yakov likes everyone!"

The lie only made Yuri narrow his eyes. Victor sighed.

"It's about a ten minute walk."

 

 

_April 1996_

It was a month and a half before their mother visited them in St Petersburg. It hadn't been bad, not really—Victor relished the challenge each practice presented, loved the bustle of the vast port city, and was becoming fast friends with his rinkmate Georgi, even if he was a little eccentric. Yakov and Lilia's flat was large and fashionably furnished and there was always tea and biscuits to be eaten when they arrived home from practice. Valya had taken to both Yakov and Lilia to an immense degree, referring to them as 'Dede' and 'Baba,' though neither corrected her, perhaps because she still couldn't pronounce Y's.

Victor felt guilty for every moment of happiness—for it seemed like every day he missed Khimiki a little less. And how could he not miss Khimiki when his mother was still there, alone?

Valya didn't seem to be missing Khimiki at all, instead following Victor around like a shadow and insisting that Yakov take them to see the city, the sea, but mostly the museums. She loved to just stand and stare up at the old portraits of the Romanovs or the sprawling landscapes depicting the Russian countryside. Yakov didn't seem to mind that much, using it as an incentive for her to train harder during practice. Victor didn't think he minded the silence either.

It was only at night that his sister's happy façade broke. Their rooms were across the hall from one another, and each night Victor would hear the tell-tale squeal of his door being pushed open and the light pitter patter of feet on the wood floor. She crawled into his bed, hugging him as tightly as she could. Victor sat up, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

"Did you have a nightmare?" Valya just nodded.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Mama's not gonna come back for us, is she?"

"What?"

"She's gonna leave us with Dede and Baba."

"They're not—No she's not, she's going to come back."

Valya was silent for a while. Then she asked, "Vit-a, are you gonna leave me too?"

Victor hugged her tight. "Never. Never in a million, billion years. No matter what.

 

 

_January 2017_

"Vitya? Early to a practice? We all must be dreaming," Yakov said as he entered with the herd of Russian skaters. Victor just laughed.

"So, you're really back?" Georgi asked, and it was more than a little evident that he was less than pleased. Yuri couldn't blame him—it had to be hard, growing up skating in Victor's shadow, only to then be usurped by the newly debuted Yurio.

"Da, da, how could I stay away? Especially now that I've got to win back my world records—"

"Good luck with that, loser!" Yurio spat, eyes narrowed. "I'm going to be taking home gold and there's nothing you or the pig can do about it. Got it old man?"

"Can we save the threats and vows and whatever until after I've had my coffee?" Mila said, rolling her eyes. "You come back and get the kitten all riled up, what are we going to do with you Victor? Hey Yuri!"

"Stop calling me kitten!"

"All of you! Quit bickering and get your skates on! Everyone out on the ice in five minutes or else."

"Or else what?" Yuri asked as everyone skittered off to pull on their skates. Victor laughed.

"Death by Salchow. Or Lutz. Or Axel, if he's feeling particularly vindictive."

Yuri shook his head and pulled his skates on, taking care with the laces. Victor pulled on his own, toppling out much of the contents of his bag to do so. Yuri stooped and stuffed it back into his bag, pausing at a clear plastic heart containing a picture of Victor sticking his tongue out at the camera, what was very clearly Makkachin as a puppy clutched in his arms.

"Aw, cute," Yuri said, looking at the picture closer. "I didn't know you used to wear your hair in a bun! You look so young, even for juniors—"

"What? No—"

"Congratulations lovebirds, you just earned the whole squad Death by Salchow. On the ice. Now!"

Yuri swore as he practically leapt on the ice. The other skaters groaned, though at least they seemed to blame Victor for the offense. Victor didn't seem to mind, at least to say anything. He'd seemed locked in his own head since they'd arrived in St. Petersburg, his usual sunny disposition stormy. Last night he hadn't even come to bed until nearly half two, and even then, his sleep was restless.

Yuri made a mental note to call Pichit for advice later. It was just so odd to see Victor like this—he wondered if it was something he'd done. Perhaps it was just the change in the weather. His mom always said—

"Sloppy, Katsuki! Keep that up and we'll start over!" Yakov yelled, his face the color of beets.

Yuri decided to focus only on skating until practice was over.

 

 

_April 1996_

His mother came to visit on a Tuesday. Victor awoke slowly, sure that he was dreaming. He could smell freshly baked scones and bitter green tea, the sort his mother always drank at home. There was the sound of muffled voices, of a familiar melodic laugh—

"Vit-a! Vit-a, wake up! Mama's here!" Valya squealed, leaping onto his bed.

"What?"

"Mama! Come see Mama!"

Victor raced into the kitchen, still rubbing sleep from his eyes. His mother sat across from Lilia, holding a cup of tea and smiling her crooked smile. She was thinner than he remembered, shadows smudged under her sea-colored eyes. Her hair was limp, pulled back into a knot at the back of her head, her clothes hung from her frame, at least two sizes too big.

"Mama?" Victor asked, hesitant.

"My little ice prince! My Vitya!" She got up to embrace him but stopped, wincing. Yakov surveyed her darkly from the other side of the room.

Valya rocketed forward into her mother's legs, wrapping her little arms around them. Yakov stepped forward.

"Valya, be carefully with your mama, let's not—"

"But Dede, if I keep hugging her she can't go away again."

The room feel into awkward silence.

"She calls you Dede?" Mama asked finally, her voice low.

"Sivilla—" Yakov began, but Victor interrupted him.

"Are you going to go away again? And leave us, I mean?" he asked, the words coming out harsher than he had meant. Lilia's sharp intake of breath was the only noise to piece the silence. Victor stared at his mother, anger bubbling inside him. It hadn't been his fault he'd went away—been  _sent away_ , to a whole new city, to practically a new world with nothing but increasingly infrequent calls from Mama.

And Valya—Valya was growing up without a mother or a father, calling strangers Dede and Baba and clinging to Victor as if he would dissapear. There was no one to sing her to sleep, no one to brush her hair at night, no one to call her gold and hug her tight.

No one but Victor.

"Victor, it's complicated—" his mother began, but Victor turned away.

"No, it's not. You can't just leave like Dad!" he ran back to his room and slammed the door.

"Vitya, wait—"

"Sivilla, let him go. He needs time to process all of this." Victor could hear Lilia's imperious voice through the door, though it was gentler than her was accustomed to. He could hear his mother settle back into her chair, hear the sound of footsteps.

"I don't know what to do, Lilia—"

"Why not tell them the truth?" came Yakov's voice.

"What truth Mama?"

"Why don't you go bring this to your brother?"

The pitter patter of tiny feet and then—"Vit-a! Vit-a! Mama got you a present!"

"I don't want it."

"Why not?"

"Cuz she's just gonna leave us again. We're never going back to Khimiki."

"But maybe just open it?"

Victor threw the box across the room and pulled his knees into his chest. He didn't look up at the sound of glass breaking or Valya's frightened squeal. The tears were coming, really coming, for the first time since they'd arrived in St. Petersburg, hot and fast.

Valya slid down the wall and sat next to him, staring up at his crumpled face. She tried to push away his tears but they kept coming. Valya got up and toddled out of the room, returning a moment later with a blanket and her stuffed dog, which she deposited on Victor before trying to wrap him in the blanket. Victor pulled her into a hug.

"You're my favorite baby sister, you know that?"

"I'm not a baby! And I'm your  _only_ sister."

"Still."


	4. Betrayal

_January 2017_

"Wow. That was certainly some workout. Yakov's really a fan of negative reinforcement, isn't he?" Yuri said as they exited the rink. He was sore, but feeling accomplished—it was the first time in practice he felt he was consistently landing his quad flip—there was defiantly something to Yakov's Death by Salchow—the endurance it built—for some—was impressive.

"What do you mean? He was really going easy today." Victor was still pink faced from the workout, though his hair remained photo shoot ready, a fact that Yuri found mildly irritating. He'd have to raid Victor's bathroom and find out what his secrets were.

"Jesus,  _that_  was easy?"

"What, are you burning out already Pig? You're just going to let me beat you? How pathetic." Yurio appeared at their elbows, scowling and dressed in a thin leopard print jacket. He'd taken to pulling his hair back in braids, now that it was growing longer.

"Nice skating out there, Yurio—" Victor said, clapping a hand on Yurio's shoulder, a hand which Yurio promptly shrugged off.

"Stop calling me that!"

"Hey! Why don't we all stop and grab lunch, there's that great little deli over by the river," Victor began, his face splitting into a wide grin. Yurio made a face, his green eyes glinting dangerously.

"No way would I be seen dead with you losers. Besides, the one on Ploshchad is way better. You should know that, your doppelganger showed me that one."

"Victor's got a doppelganger? Since when?" It was hard for Yuri to imagine someone who could come close to the delicacy of his features, not to mention his unique coloring. Yurio shrugged, disinterested.

"How should I know? All I know is that she's way less annoying than  _you guys_."

"So, do you want to come and grab lunch or not?" Yuri asked, rolling his eyes. Victor was oddly silent.

"Nyet, Lilia made borsht and I have ballet practice."

"Another time then," Victor said, and he was already walking away. Yuri waved goodbye to Yurio before jogging to catch up. Victor was already on his phone, texting away. Yuri tried reading over his shoulder, but the whole exchange with in French.

"How's Chris doing?" Yuri asked, guessing who was on the other end. He'd learned that Christophe Giacometti was a near constant source of the latest news and gossip, on par with Pichit. Of course now that the two of them were friends—Yuri was quite sure there wasn't a secret in the world safe from them.

"He's going to be dead, etot lzhivyy shveytsarakiy ublyudok. Ya dumal chto my druz'ya—" Victor fumed, still typing away. Yuri was taken aback.

"I thought you were friends with Chris."

"Da, me too."

"What's going on?"

Victor's phone began buzzing, He answered without looking at Yuri.

 

 

_July 1996_

Victor didn't find out that his mother until later that his mother had been sick. He heard Yakov and Lilia discussing it in hushed voices in the living room, long after he was supposed to be asleep.

"She's not getting any better Lilia, we should take the train to Moscow this weekend—"

"She said she didn't want them coming to see her, you know that."

"She's not going to make it through the summer, they should be able to say goodbye."

"You know she doesn't want them remembering her like that. That's why she sent them here, she didn't want Victor seeing her sick. And what if that's the only memory Valya has of Sivilla?"

"Victor needs closure, he's old enough to understand—"

"And what if he acts up like last time? You know what that did to her—"

"He doesn't understand why he was sent away! He thinks she doesn't love him anymore, if he knew the truth—"

"But that's Sivilla's decision, not ours. They're not ours Yakov, you know that."

There was silence. And then, "She shouldn't be alone Lilia. I'm going down this weekend. You do what you think is right with the kids."

Victor tip toed back to bed without getting his glass of water. He felt sick to his stomach. He curled up under his blankets, but sleep never came.

 

 

_January 2017_

" _Because_  it wasn't my place to tell you, she made me promise—"

"I don't care Chris, how could you not tell me?"

"Hey, this whole thing is between you two, not me."

"She hasn't been home in three years. Three years. She was at the apartment, God, I should have seen it then. Who else cleans with lemons and vinegar? Makka must have smelt her perfume or something, she was acting so weird—but that's beside the point! How could you not tell me?"

"You've been gone too, flacon de niege, you could have—"

"That's not the same—"

"Yes it so is. So she didn't want to move back to St Petersburg after school? Eva Green wore one of her designs to the Oscars—she's doing incredible Victor, things she can't do in Russia, or at least couldn't at first. Now it's different, she's got a waiting list, celebrity clientele, and now with the diagnosis—"

"What diagnosis?"

"You talked to her, right? I'm assuming that's why you're jumping down my throat?"

"No, Yurio said I had a doppelganger, he said they'd met for lunch."

"She said she was going to talk to you when you and Yuri arrived."

"We just got in last night."

"Really? Huh, she's been there since November. I knew she hadn't talked to you at the Rostelecom Cup because of Makka but I'd figured you guys had talked before Barcelona—"

"No, no. I think she called once but—What do you know about a diagnosis?"

"I don't know if I'm really the one to tell you, she wanted to be the one—"

"Chris, I swear on all that's holy—"

"Oui, oui, I don't know much, just what she told me when she came to Switzerland to have me sign papers—"

"She had you sign papers?"

"Give me a second." There was the sound of buttons, a call being patched through.

"Da, Chris, can I call you back? I'm in the middle of lunch—" Victor froze. It had been over a year since he'd heard her voice. He'd forgotten how soft it was, the bell-like quality to it. How could he have forgotten?

"Don't hate me, okay?" Chis' voice sounded as if he were very far away.

"What, why would I—?"

"Valya?" Victor asked, his voice cracking.

"Christophe Olivier Giacometti, I am going to—"

"Desole mon amor!" There was a click as Chris hung up.

The other end of the line was silent. He wondered if she'd hung up too. Honestly, he wouldn't blame her. It had been a stupid fight, really. Their only fight. Victor couldn't remember another time they'd had it out, not even when she'd moved to New York in the first place for school. He had thought that had been bad then, but at least it was temporary, four years, nothing more. Until it wasn't, until she got that stupid apartment in Brooklyn and started talking about starting her own brand in the States.

It wasn't as if he didn't want her to succeed—he did, more than anything. He'd loved whenever she'd come home modeling her own designs, showing him her plans for future seasons—he'd been one of her very first clients, letting her design his costumes for the last two seasons.

But he couldn't bear her living so far away. At least when she was in Russia, he had someone to come home to, someone to watch Makka and make sure she felt loved, someone to liven up the grey Russian winters. At least in St Petersburg he could look out for her, keep his promise.

"Valenka, are you still there?" he asked, not knowing which was worse.

"Da, Vitya. What is it?"

"I just thought—perhaps—"

"We should talk. We have to—God."

"Are you okay, Zoleste? Chris mentioned—"

"Chris has a fat mouth. Meet me at the Square? It's not something I want to talk about on the phone."

"Da, can you meet me in an hour?"

"I'll be in that café by the fountain, the one—"

"With the scanes, da. Valya—" But she had already hung up.

 

 

_July 1996_

Yakov returned looking even more grim than usual. He'd been away a full two and a half weeks, leaving both Valya and Victor in the hands of Lilia, who quickly introduced them to the barre and to grueling workouts that made Yakov's practices look practically easy. Georgi had been roped into practice as well, though he took it in stride.

"Wait for double practice days. Those are the worst," he whispered to Victor as they worked at the barre.

"Eyes forward Georgi, no slouching. Victor, stretch that leg, yes, we need to work on that flexibility of yours, straight, straighten that leg! Valya, remember, light as air, ballerina fingers—good girl."

Victor couldn't wait to get back on the ice, and neither, it seemed, could Georgi, who complained under his breath every time he was sent back to the barre to work on his posture. Valya took the new lessons in stride, however, and, despite the fact that she way the youngest by four years, quickly became the star pupil. Lilia was overjoyed.

"That's right! Beautiful! Dance with beauty Valya, it is the highest one can achieve."

Valya danced all the way back to the apartment, hanging onto Lilia's hand the whole way. Lilia smiled one of her rare smiles. Victor couldn't help but laugh at her twirling and clumsy singing of the Chopin song she'd been dancing to all morning.

The first thing they all saw after Lilia pushed the door open was Yakov sitting at the kitchen table, his head in his hands. Lilia froze in the doorway but Valya rushed forward and climbed into Yakov's lap, already chittering away about her new ballet lessons and how she wanted to skate to 'the pretty piano music Baba plays.'

"That's—that's wonderful little one. I'll see if I can get a tape for the rink," Yakov said slowly. He took a deep breath.

Lilia stepped forward, clapping her hands. "To the showers! Both of you, I don't want you covering the furniture with sweat. Victor, could you run the bath for your sister for me, I'll be there in just a moment."

Victor nodded, but didn't say anything. He followed Valya to the marbled bathroom where she was already lining the lip of the tub with rubber ducks.

"Vit-a, I can't find Ilia!"

"Which one is that?"

"The big blue one!"

"I'll go look, you wait here, okay?"

"Okay."

Victor darted out of the bathroom back towards the kitchen. Lilia was seated now too, deep in conversation with Yakov.

"But I thought you'd said—"

"She took a sudden turn, there was nothing the doctors could do."

Lilia was silent for a long time. "Was she in much pain?"

Yakov looked away. "I don't think so. Not really, with all the morphine they were giving her."

"Oh, Yasha, I'm so sorry, I know how close you and Sivilla were."

"She was my first student, my best—I just can't believe it. She was thirty-two, god. What are we going to tell Victor?"

"Tell me what? What happened to my mom?"

The room was silent but for the muffled singing coming from the bathroom. Yakov and Lilia stared at Victor. It was the first time he'd seen adults look truly frightened.

"Victor, why don't we—"

"I want to know. I'm big, you can tell me."

Yakov got up and knelt down next to Victor, his face unusually kind. He took a deep breath, steeling himself.

"Victor, Sivilla—your mama—was very, very sick."

"Like the flu?"

"She was sick in her bones."

"Why do you keep saying was?"

"Victor—Mama went to go live with the angels in Heaven."

"What? Why?"

"Because she got too sick, the cancer made her very, very weak."

"Mama's dead?"

Yakov nodded, placing a hand on Victor's shoulder. Victor shrugged it off. "I don't believe you."

"Vitya, I was there when your mother passed—"

"Why didn't you take me? Why did I have to do stupid ballet all week when  _you_  got to say goodbye. She's not your mama."

"Your mama didn't want you to see her like that. She didn't want you to remember her like that."

"The last thing I did was yell at her. I didn't even say bye before she left. What if she thought—"

"She understood, Vitya. Mama's always do."

Victor stared at the ground, eyes brimming with tears that he refused to let fall. His hands were clutched in fists.


	5. Near Misses

_September 2015_

"Come on! I got tickets to go to Fiji for a long weekend! By the time we get back the movers will have everything ready at home. You won't have to lift a finger!" Victor exclaimed, beaming. He threw himself on Valya's bed as if posing atop a piano. Valya turned in her desk chair to face him, brows furrowed.

Victor was always struck by how much Valya looked like their mom. Sure, they both shared the same silvery hair, the same eyes, the same slim build, but Valya had their mother's heart shaped face, her features exaggerated and delicate at the same time.

And yet, if it weren't for looks—there'd been many a time people had questioned if they were really family. She was reserved where he was extroverted, shy where he was charismatic, anxious where he was confident. Their differences had only become more stark since she'd stopped skating.

Of course, this was their chance to reconcile. Valya had just finished her internship at Vera Wang, Fashion Week had passed in a flurry of earth-toned dresses (and a personal invitation from Valentino himself to return for the Spring show), but now there was finally time to go  _home_.

Yakov was furious, of course. To take off two weeks of training with less than two months until the Rostelecom cup was unheard of. But he'd turned off his phone so he could deal with it later.

"I can't just leave Vitya, I have work—"

"I thought the internship ended last week."

"It did, but—Victor, I'm just not done in New York yet."

"What do you mean? You graduated, what else is there—?"

"A career, for one. What's the point of this degree if I don't do anything with it? I've made some very valuable contacts, I really think I can make it on my own. And it certainly doesn't hurt that you wore my designs last season at the Grand Prix—Some of the up and comers have contacted me about designing their costumes. LeRoy, the Crispianos—Mila and Chris already said they wanted designs for both programs—"

"That's great, Valenka, but what's wrong with doing it in St Petersburg? You'll have Makka there, and me—"

"I've already talked to some of my friends from the Institute, you remember Cyndi? And Pierre and Sun? They're all on board, we're hoping to have a show to walk next year, we found a studio down in SoHo that Sun's mom can rent to us—"

"I can't believe it."

Valya's faces fell as Victor sat up, his face stormy. "What? I thought you'd be happy—"

"You have to come home. I'll buy as many of your designs as you want but—"

"Victor, I  _am_  home. I like it here."

"How can this be home? You don't have family here? Where's Yakov and Lilia? Where's Makka? We're all back in St Petersburg,  _missing you_ —"

"Victor, that's part of the reason why I like it here—"

"You  _like_  being away from family? You like that it hurts us?"

"That's not what I meant! You know that's not what I meant! I miss all of you, of course, but—" she broke off.

"What? Tell me?"

"You all treat me like glass, ever since I got sick. It's like you all think I'll break—"

"Valenka, you nearly died—"

"But I didn't Victor. And everyone in Russia—everyone at home is so afraid to say anything wrong, they never say anything at all."

Victor was silent, staring.

"I like it here, Vitya. I like that Sun covers my prosthetic in refrigerator magnets when we go out so I'll feel 'extra fancy' and that people don't know me. They make that face, but they don't ask, they don't watch figure skating. If they recognize me it's from an ad or from class or from Chris' Instagram feed. It's just easier than being constantly reminded how I let everyone down."

Victor stared at her, anger bubbling in him. Was that what she thought? That because he treated her gently he didn't know what was best? She didn't know just how close she'd come to breaking, she hadn't sat by her bedside watching her take ragged breaths for hours afraid to fall asleep in case one of them was her last. She didn't have to make the hard decisions—as if he didn't regret everyday the loss of her leg, the loss of her skating career, as if he didn't wonder at night if he had made the right decision or if it could have been saved if he'd acted sooner. No amount of refrigerator magnets could fix that.

What was so wrong with 'that face' in Russia, the one that people made because they cared about her, about her wellbeing? What was so wrong with being recognized for something that she had been so marvelous at, that they'd been marvelous at together?

How could she not know? How much he loved her, how much he missed her, how much every time he had to leave her in New York it felt like a hot knife in his chest? Hell, any time he had to leave her after she got sick had been physically painful.

Victor walked out without saying a word, not trusting himself to speak. He half expected her to follow him, to stop him, to at least compromise—

When she called the next day he turned his phone off.

 

 

_July 1996_

Victor ran to his room and slammed the door. He wanted to cry, to scream, to destroy  _something_.

He wanted Yakov to be lying. He wanted Yakov to be lying more than he'd wanted anything in the who world, and yet—he knew in his heart it was true.

Mama had been so thin, so pale, her hair like silver straw. How had he not seen, not known—she was his  _Mama_ —

"Vit-a?" Valya's voice was small from the doorway. He didn't turn. He didn't want her to see him like this, angry and heartbroken and—

He felt little arms wrap around his shoulders, holding him tight. She rested her little head on his shoulder. "Why are you so sad?"

"I'm not—" came his gut reaction, but he stopped himself. She was her Mama too. He wouldn't lie to her, he couldn't. "I'm sad because Mama's gone."

Valya sat down, staring at Victor with wide, serious eyes. "She's in Moscow. But She's coming back soon, she said."

"No. She's  _gone_."

"Gone where? Will she send postcards? One's with snow?"

"Mama went away with the angels."

Valya stared at him, brows furrowed. Victor sniffed violently, his jaw clenched.

"Do they have post cards there?"

Victor thought hard for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. "No. Just clouds and ice rinks and—"

"And snow?"

"Lots and lots of snow."

"It sounds like Moscow. Can we take the train there too?"

"The train doesn't go that far."

"How far away is she?"

"Really, really far."

"Is that why you're crying?"

" _Da."_

"Should I cry then too?"

Victor didn't answer. Her just sat on the floor, staring at the faded carpet like it was the most interesting thing in the world.

_September 2015_

Valya waited for Victor to turn around, to start yelling, anything. But he just left, closing the apartment door with a click.

The silence was worse. Not knowing what was going on in his head. She called him the next day, hoping they could meet up for coffee or something, just to talk. Her phone rang once and then went to voicemail.

She kept calling, for days, and then a week and then one day she hung up, halfway through listening to his voicemail. Victor and her and never really had a fight. She supposed this was it.

She knew she could end it as quickly as she wanted—pack up, move back to the Neva apartment for a few weeks before finding her own place a block or two away. Victor would forget this whole stupid fight and she'd have her brother back.

But she wouldn't forget New York. She had a real chance here, something she didn't have in Russia. She had never thought Victor would have taken her staying so hard It wasn't as if she was a kid anymore. Victor had friends and skating and sponsorships in Russia.

Victor would call. He'd have to, before the Rostelecom Cup anyway, they had tickets together, they'd already booked rooms at the same hotel.

He'd call.

 

 

_July 1996_

They sat in silence for a long time. Victor could hear Lilia and Yakov talking, their voices muffled through the door.

After a while Valya got up and toddled out of the room. Her face was dry, her little face set. She reappeared a minute or two later, carrying a small golden snow globe. She deposited it on his lap before sitting down next to him once more.

"Mama gave me this. When she came to visit."

Inside the globe a silver haired figure skater danced on golden bladed skates, St. Basil's Cathedral in the background. Victor watched the snow flutter around the figure.

"She said it would help me when I was lonely or sad."

She turned the key, letting the melody escape. It was the lilting song his mother used to sing to him each night, gently tinkling from tiny brass keys. Victor cradled the snow globe to his chest, as if it could fill the emptiness left there.

Victor didn't realize he was singing along until he ran out of words—he'd always fallen asleep before mama had finished the song.

"You keep it."

"Victor looked up, eyes wide. "What?"

"It's your song. You and Mama's."

"I can't, its yours—"

"Mama said she got it for when I'm sad or lonely—but I have you."

Victor pulled her into a bone crushing hug, the snow globe still clutched in his hand.

_October 2015_

It was two weeks before the Rostelecom Cup and he hadn't called. He'd thought at first that if he didn't pick up for long enough she'd have to come back to Russia and he'd be able to convince her to stay.

He missed her. He'd long since gotten used to the silence of the apartment after she'd left, but this silence was absolute. There were no first thing in the morning phone calls ended by Yakov when Victor got to practice or late night video chats. Her letters, which had always been nearly constant, had dwindled to nothing, not a picture or design for weeks.

He hated fighting with her. Hated it. Chris said that he was being stupid—what if he was?

He just wanted her home.

 

 

_February 2004_

Victor lay on the floor of the bathroom, his legs wrapped in hot towels, his nose buried in a fashion magazine. He still wore his training clothes—they were drenched in sweat, enough to make them itch.

There was a pounding on the door. Victor ignored it. No doubt Yakov was still angry with him for the quad loop—he was still in Juniors—but Victor didn't want to hear it. He'd gotten more than an earful at the rink, and then another on the walk home and then when they'd gotten up to the apartment—really, the bathroom was the only safe place.

Or so he thought. The door opened and Victor sighed, clamping his eyes shut.

"Oh, it's just me you big baby."

Victor half sat up, opening his eyes. Valya quickly closed the door and turned to the mirror, wiping steam from the glass. Her hair was still damp and streaming down her back. She wore what Victor distinctly recognized as one of his old shirts and a pair of leggings. "What? Val, get out—"

"No. I need to use the mirror and I'm not waiting for you to quit sulking. That could be  _months_ ," she said dramatically, taking great care to roll her eyes so that he could see it.

"I'm not sulking."

"You're a big liar. Besides, Yakov's gone out. He said he doesn't want to see you for at least a few hours."

"I wonder why."

"Something about you being willful and arrogant and never listening to reason—"

"I was being sarcastic."

"I know," she said, beaming back at him. Victor sighed and sat back, staring at the ceiling. Valya began dragging a brush through here hair, not caring that there were snarls. Victor sat up once more, feigning annoyance.

"Lemme do that. You're going to ruin your hair that way."

Valya plopped down in front of him, handing him the brush. Victor wondered if this had been her plan all along.

He worked out the knots gently, until her hair shone like silver. He hummed as he did so, his voice soft. He always did Valya's hair, ever since they moved permanently to St Petersburg. Lilia had tried, when Valya had been little, but she had always pulled her hair too tightly into ballerina buns, making her cry. Valya could fall flat on her face in the middle of the ice without a peep but for some reason, she seemed to have a very delicate scalp.

So Victor had practiced and taught himself braids and twists and how to fasten her hair back into any number of styles. It was relaxing, something about the repetition soothing. That was partially why he'd grown his hair out, and partially—

"Victor?" Valya drew him from his reverie.

"Hmmm?"

"Do you remember Mama?"

Victor's hands froze. "What?"

"Do you remember Mama? Like, I know we have picture and stuff, but—"

"You don't remember Mama?"

Valya shook her head.

Victor stared at the back of her head, feeling as though if he were to move, something would break. Finally he spoke.

"There must be something you remember, from when you were little—"

"The first thing I remember is you."

Victor swallowed hard. All of the sudden it was very important that he finish her braid, and that it be perfect. Valya sat in silence for a moment, then, "I didn't mean to make you angry."

"I'm not angry. Just—why did you want to know?"

"I don't know. I was just thinking, if Mama was still here, this would be the sort of thing she would do. And I couldn't picture it."

"I'm sorry Valenka—"

"Why are you sorry? I know it's hard for you, you remember Moscow and Mama. But its only ever been you and St Petersburg for me. That's all I need, I think. And maybe a puppy."

 

 

_November 2015_

He didn't call. She still went, she said it was to see Chris and Mila and Georgi skate, but she thought, maybe if they'd just sit down and talk—if she could get him to come visit, come see what she was building.

She might have started designing skating costumes, but now they were working on real couture, they were going to have a full collection next fall and if they could just get a spot to walk during fashion week, she knew they could sell it too.

She'd brought one of her designs, a camel colored coat perfect for St Petersburg winters. She meant it as a peace offering, a present, a good luck charm.

She lost her nerve when she saw him in the lobby, surrounded by reporters and fans. It was always hard enough to live in Victor's shadow. He didn't see her, not with all of the hubbub and flashing lights.

She crossed to the front desk and handed the box to the front desk clerk. "Would you mind terribly having this delivered up to Mr. Nikivorov's room?"

"Of course not, can I ask whom from?"

"Val—I'm his sister."

"Oh, isn't that lovely? He's actually right over there if you'd like—"

"I really don't want to fight the press, and I've got a dinner reservation—"

"Of course. I'll make sure it gets to him."

"Thank you."

Valya turned back towards Victor before she left. Maybe she was being stupid. Maybe she was being selfish. She caught Victor's eye, a moment before the automatic doors whooshed open.

He looked sad. He looked tired.

He looked away.

 

 

_June 2010_

Valya leaned on the boards of the ice rink, watching her brother work his way back and forth across the ice in lazy half circles, clearly lost in thought. She waited for him to circle back to where she stood, bag over her shoulder, ready for a large bowl of okrophka.

"Vitya! She called, breaking his focus.

"Where's Yakov? Wheren't you supposed to be working with Georgi and Mila today?"

"They went home, like, an hour ago. It's almost eight thirty."

Victor chuckled. "I'd say I lost track of time a bit, wouldn't you?"

Valya handed him his water bottle, which he took gratefully.

"Yakov was pleased. Pleased enough for Yakov, anyway. He said your focus is good."

"Bah, he says the same thing every year. He should just trust me by now."

"I don't think Yakov will ever trust any of us—least of all you! I'm pretty sure he's still mad about your senior debut—"

"What's a little skin, honestly? All—"

"For the shock and awe, the all surprising Victor!" Valya mocked, giggling despite herself.

"You better watch it missy!" Victor shot back, his lips curving into a smile. "Or I'll put bleach in your shampoo! That'll teach you!"

"It's your shampoo too dummy!" Valya laughed as Victor rolled his eyes melodramatically.

"Alright then smarty, let's get some dinner so you can hit the books. You have practice with Lilia before school tomorrow—"

"Actually, do you think we could maybe stay for a little while longer? I was hoping—" she broke off, a flush creeping into her cheeks. Victor stared at her a moment, confused.

"What is it zoloste?"

"Do you think, maybe—Maybe you could choreograph my free skate? Please?"

Victor didn't answer right away. Valya stared down at her feet, feeling heat creep into her ears. After a minute she glanced at Victor, hoping to gage his reaction.

He never choreographed for anyone else—Georgi had asked once and he'd laughed.

"Do you think I'd be dumb enough to give one of my biggest competitors a winning program?"

Georgi had laughed it off but she knew it had bothered him, though 'biggest competitor had put a new spring in his step.

"How do you know it'd be a winning program?" Georgi'd asked, insolence creeping into his voice.

"It would be if I skated it."

And that had been that.

She'd been stupid to ask, really. What was she thinking? Sure, she wasn't in his division, but surely that didn't matter, not when it became a reflection on him. Besides, their styles were so different, especially for siblings—

But Victor was smiling. A big, stupid, toothy grin that seemed to light up his whole face.

"What?" she asked, defensive. Victor's smile grew wider.

"You really want me to choreograph your senior debut?"

"Yeah? I mean it's just the free skate, Lilia already has my short program planned, but she and Yakov both said that if you're willing—"

"Of course, zoleste!"

"Really?"

"Really really."

Valya threw her arms around him, taking him off guard. He dropped his water but returned the hug, burying his face in her hair.

"When can we start? Now? I brought my music." Valya bounded up, trembling with excitement. Victor laughed.

"Not today. We have to get home and feed Makka. And you have homework—so do I now. Give me your music when we get home, I'll start working on it. What have you got tonight?"

"History. And English."

"Alright then, it's all settled, da?"

"Da."

 

 

_November 2015_

She looked different. How was it that she looked different in two months? She was doing her hair differently, pulling it back into a great knot at the back of her head—not like Lilia's—messy, at if she'd just thrown it up.

God, she looked tired.

"Victor, can you comment on your theme for a minute?" one of the reports at his elbow asked. Victor turned towards him, brows furrowed.

"Give me a second, I've got to—" he began, already stepping towards Valya, but when he looked back, she was gone.

 

 

_April 2011_

Victor sat by her bedside, listening to the gentle beeping of the monitors. His eyes were heavy, begging for sleep but he refused to close them. Instead he kept them trained on his sister, on the shallow rising and falling of her chest.

She looked so small—frail, almost, tucked into the bright white of the sheets. One of the nurses had tied a scarf around her head—it held the only color in the room, deep violets and burgundys and blues.

The cancer had taken so much—her hair, the last of her childhood, and now her leg—and with it, her skating career. Victor didn't know what he'd tell her when she woke up—How could he tell her it was all gone? He'd had to choose, had to guess—if it had been his own life, his own leg, perhaps he'd have waited, seen if there'd been a snowball's chance and risked it.

But not for Valya. She was his baby sister, his zoloste—she had to live, even if she hated him for it.

She had to live, or he'd be completely alone.

 

 

_December 2015_

It got easier, not talking to someone. It didn't make it hurt any less, just the weight of not speaking seemed to settle, to the point where she could almost bear it.

 _Almost_.


	6. Misgivings

_January 2017_

"Victor! Victor wait up!" Yuri called, jogging to catch up with Victor's furious strides. "What's going on, what's wrong?"

"My sister is in town," he said darkly, his brows drawn tightly together.

"Sister?" Yuri asked. He had a vague memory of Victor mentioning something of the like in a fan magazine years ago, but he couldn't quite place it.

"Da, sestra. I have not seen her for a year and now she is here and  _Christophe_  of all people is telling me that she has a diagnosis, that she was in Switzerland having him sign papers?"

It seemed to Yuri that he was more talking to himself than to him. He intertwined his fingers with Victor's, trying to think of the best way to be comforting. He couldn't imagine not talking to Mari for a year—sure, they'd often gone weeks while he was in Detroit without actually speaking, but never a  _year._  He was burning to ask why they hadn't spoken, but he knew to hold his tongue. The worst thing he could do would be to push Victor away when he was already feeling so volatile.

"What if she's sick again? What do I do, why wouldn't she tell me—"

"Sick again?"

"You are telling me you did not hear about Valjeriya Nikivorova? You were what—18—during the 2011 Worlds—"

"I didn't make it to Worlds that year—"

"But you watched, yes?"

"Parts of it—"

"Well, that was my sister—what the world saw of her. Before she got too sick. She got bone cancer, just like my mama."

"Victor—god, Victor, I'm so sorry."

"She was fifteen. She lost her leg, her skating career. I was nineteen, I had to tell them what to do after she collapsed on the ice. They said it was the only thing that would stop it from spreading—but what if its back, Yuri? What if it's back and I wasted a year—"

"You don't know anything yet Victor," Yuri said soothingly, wrapping an arm around him. "Just breathe—until you know for sure, just try and relax. Maybe its nothing that serious. Did Chris tell you what sort of papers she had him sign?"

"No."

"Maybe it was a restraining order."

Victor laughed despite himself, pulling Yuri close. "You always know how to cheer me up Yuri."

 

 

_October 2016_

Valya lay on her stomach in her Brooklyn apartment, video chatting with Christophe Giacometti, who was becoming increasingly irritable as she dodged his questions. She was always struck by how different he looked with his glasses and his laid back sweaters, so approachable and kind and angelic.

Not that Chris wasn't kind, of course. He was one of the kindest, most generous people she knew. It was just that there was no way anyone who knew Chris—or had seen him skate after he turned seventeen—would refer to him as remotely angelic.

"So, are you or aren't you making it for the Trophee de France?" Chris asked, brows furrowed behind his round glasses, "I want to know if I should reserve a ticket for you."

Valya sighed, looking away from the screen of her MacBook. She bit her lip, thinking. She could hear Christophe tutting on the other end of the video call, already well aware of what her answer was going to be.

"Are you skipping all the events this year? Just because of that stupid fight you and Victor had?"

"No," she shot back, her voice defensive. Christophe gave her a look. "Maybe—"

"Put on your big girl panties and come see me win gold. I mean, I don't even know what the point is this year without Victor, where's the competition, really?"

Valya made a face.

"He's not even going to be there, for Christ's sake. I swear to God if you don't come see your  _oldest friend_  skate I will disown you!"

"You're not my oldest friend."

"Well you're not talking to your oldest friend and I don't think it really counts anyway if he's your brother."

"I talked to Georgi two days ago and we're not in the least bit related."

"I swear on whatever you Russian ex pats hold dear if you don't show up because of some stupid fight with Victor I will find another designer."

Valya feigned horror before rolling her sea-colored eyes. "Have fun finding someone two weeks before the competition, because I haven't mailed your free skate yet."

"Are you kidding me Val? Please tell me you're kidding me—"

"Do you realize how much beading I had to do? By hand?"

"You had the other one done in a month and a half."

"Yeah, and it didn't have  _nearly_  as much handwork _and_  I had Cyndi then. She moved to Auckland, it's just me now."

"I remember now, yeah. But still, when do you—"

"Just hang on a second, I'll show you."

Valya got up and crossed to her work table, coming back with a black and red unitard glinting with intricate beadwork.

"Wow, okay, I get it. Lemme see the side." Valya turned it so he could see.

"I wouldn't suggest wearing underwear with this one, the cutouts go down to the thigh—"

"How cute, you assume I ever wear underwear—"

"Luca's shown me a few pairs so I know you at least own some, regardless of how practical—"

"Those are not going out undies, sweetheart—"

"You really don't change much Chris," she laughed, cutting him off before he could tell her exactly what they were for. She'd learned a long time ago that unless she was drunk, she really didn't want to know. And even then it was a toss up.

"Oooh, embarrassed? But  _you_  seem to, Miss Nicey-Nice. And funnily enough  _I_  happen to remember what happened in Copenhagen and you weren't nearly as goody-goody then." He knew that she did, in fact, remember Copenhagen too. Or at least parts of it, which was why he enjoyed bringing it up so often.

"Buy me a bottle of Bollinger and I'll be delighted to hear about the intricacies of your sex life Giacometti—" she retorted, rolling her eyes, though a distinct bush had begun to creep into her cheeks. Chris, sensing victory, plowed ahead.

"You were so not just  _listening_   _Nikivorova_. I'm still not sure that pool boy will ever recover—"

"AND SPEAKING of the stripper poles you just  _happen_  to bring with you on every international jaunt, how is the Banquet Boy? God, I haven't seen thighs like that since—"

"Since Copenhagen?"

"I was going to say Stockholm—"

"Stockholm, really? That's sad Val—"

"I've been in school!"

"You graduated! Like a year and a half ago! And getting an education doesn't preclude you from dating a man who knows how to do squats."

"First off, you know how I feel about dating men—"

"That anything other than me is a crushing disappointment?"

"Oh, shut up Chris! I get drunk and tell you that you have a cute butt  _once_  when I was  _seventeen_ and you lord it over me like I offered myself naked and covered in rose petals—"

"I'm just saying, I still have to get Luca a birthday present and if you're offering—"

"You're going to be the death of me."

"But at least you'll end up in all the papers—scandal of the decade—"

"Century or nothing, I swear—"

"Seriously, though, Stockholm? That was  _three years ago._ You have to get to France, hell, I'll have Dom Perignon waiting and we are going to get you  _lai—"_

_"What about the Banquet Boy, Chris?"_

"Jesus, for someone being offered some truly sinful French dalliances, you are frighteningly fixated on your brother's sex life. What on earth would Freud say?"

"Honestly, I'd rather watch—"

"Kinky."

"—you make an ass of yourself than try and hook up with random Frenchmen. Besides, even if I wanted to, it's not as if…" she trailed off, staring at the fading light outside her apartment window.

"Shit, Val, is this about your stupid leg? So you're missing half of it, big freaking deal, you were the face of Dior, you walked for Valentino—Nobody with half a brain is going to look at you and think any less. You're the prettiest girl I know—and that counts Victor, by the way. Not to mention you run your own label now—like, who does that?"

"I hate that face they make when they find out—"

"Val, you had  _cancer_. Stop treating this like it's your own personal failing. So, am I going to watch you stupendously blue-ball some French pop star or am I going to be forced to make my own fun?"

"Is Luca going?"

"Of course. I need some stability in my life after all."

"Can you still get me a ticket next to Luca?"

Chris smiled widely, his green eyes glinting. "I knew you were my favorite Nikivorov for a reason. I just sent you the conformation number."

"You already had this planned, didn't you?"

"We have adjoining suites at the Saint James."

"God, you do know how to treat a girl."

"But you already knew that—"

Valya craned her neck to look behind Christophe. The front door opened, revealing a tall, brunette man with overlong, feathered hair. He set his brief case down and looked over at Christophe sprawled in front of the computer.

"Hey Luca!" Valya called, waving cheerfully. Luca came over and knelt next to the computer, waving back.

"Hey Val! Long time no see. Hopefully Chris is behaving."

"Oh of course, he's just trying to convince me to show up naked and covered in rose petals."

"For your birthday of course, darling."

"I prefer red lingerie, does wonders," Luca said chuckling as he planted a kiss on Chris's forehead. Chris laughed, a knowing expression sweeping over his face.

"Yes it does—"

"Chris, I will either watch you cum on the ice or over this webcam but not both."

Luca burst out laughing. "You two are entirely incorrigible."

"He started it. I was an innocent little—"

"Copenhagen!" Both Chris and Luca nearly shouted.

"I said  _was_! And I'm never getting back on that pole with either of you ever again."

"Not even for my birthday?" Luca asked, hiding a grin.

"There will not be another Copenhagen!"

"You're getting as bad as Victor. Soon you'll run off to find domestic bliss—Val I'm sorry." Chris's face fell as he caught Valya's expression. She bit her lip, her brows furrowed.

"I didn't mean, you know I didn't—"

"I know. I know. Just—I didn't think he'd still be mad, I mean, you know Victor, I thought he'd be over the whole New York thing in a week and it's been  _months_."

"To be fair, he does have a very fine piece of Japanese eye candy keeping him occupied at the moment," Chris replied. "Why, with those thighs, he probably forgot."

"Did you send that video to everyone?"

"And their mother," Luca interjected. Chris shot him a look. Luca shrugged. "What? It's practically true."

"I still can't believe he just ran off to Japan, threw away a whole season."

"The heart wants, what the heart wants," Luca said, gazing at Chris, who snorted.

"Yeah, the  _heart_."

"Gross Chris! That's Victor we're talking about!"

"Hey, when two people love each other very much—or are very drunk on champagne—"

"Chris!"

"Hey, you're the one that kept asking questions about Victor's—"

"No, I wanted to know about the  _Banquet Boy_ , as in, does he have hobbies, have you met him before said banquet, is he planning on breaking Victor's heart? That sort of thing."

"Victor's a big boy. He'll be fine. But you should call him. I'm sure that he misses you too."

"Maybe."

"Trust me. Call him, Val."

"I'll try—"

"Coward."

"Bye Luca! Bye Chris! Where'd Minka go?" Luca disappeared for a moment before returning with Chris's fluffy white Persian cat.

"Say bye Mink," he said, waving one of the cat's paws. Minka mewed, looking less than pleased. Valya giggled.

"See you in two weeks! We'll pick you up at the airport!"

"Lyublyu vas oboikh!"

"Baisers!"

Valya shut the lid of her computer. She glanced at her watch and swore. 12:30, only a half hour to make it over to Sloane-Kettering for her appointment. She'd meant to talk to Chris about her suspicions, but there was no easy way to bring it up. And what if the ache in her hip was nothing? There was no reason for the cancer to be back, the chances were miniscule—and yet—

She grabbed her purse and flew out the door, mashing the elevator button. Stairs were her enemy nowadays, even living on the third floor.

She took out her phone and began dialing—Victor had had the same number since 2009. She stopped herself before sending the call. What if she was overreacting? What good would it do to get Victor all worked up over nothing, especially after not talking for nearly a year. The last thing she needed was him hopping on a plane and fussing—especially after telling him off for worrying in the first place.

When—if—she knew something she'd call. Only then.

 

 

_November 2016_

Valya picked up her phone on the second ring. It was Luca.

"Hey, you never let us know when your flight was getting in. You still in New York?"

"Um, no. I, ah, I got in a little while ago."

"Are you still at the airport? We can be there in a half hour—"

"No, I'm at the Fontaine Saint Sulpice."

"You're right around the corner! Why didn't you just meet us at the hotel?"

"I was—I don't know."

"Is everything alright Val? You seem…weird."

Valya was silent for a long moment. Then, "Weird sounds pretty right about now."

Valya could hear Luca talking, his voice muffled. It sounded like he had his hand over the phone. She leaned forward, pressing her phone to her ear as she stared at the carved marble face of some Frenchman whom she couldn't place, long since dead. She felt a tear slip down her cheek but made no effort to wipe it away.

"Hey! Val? Chris is going to walk over to make sure you get over here all right, okay? Just stay put."

It was ten minutes before Chris made it over to the fontaine. Valya was easy enough to spot, with her waist length silvery hair. Never mind that she was the only person sitting on a spotted red suitcase.

"Hey!" Chris said, coming up behind her and wrapping her in a hug. "Luca was worried about you."

"Chris…" Valya said, burying her face in his sweater. Chris was taken aback but pulled her closer anyway. Valya wasn't often a very physically affectionate person, at least while sober. It took him a minute to realize she was crying.

"Mon chou, what is it? What's wrong?"

"Chris, I think I'm sick again."

"W-what?"

"The doctors, they're running some tests, I had a biopsy done—"

"Did it come back?"

"The first one was inconclusive, I'm still waiting—they think it could just be a build up of scar tissue, but it feels the same as last time, when it started."

"Mon Dui.  _Fuck._  Are you okay? That's a stupid question, I'm sorry—Does Victor know?"

"No, I haven't—"

"I'll call him now, I'm sure he has more than enough frequent flyer miles—"

"No! I'm not telling him—"

"What do you mean you're not telling him? He's your brother, he's going to flip—"

"I don't know for sure yet, I can't—You know what it did to him last time. I'm not—I can't—"

"You're not doing anything, you need people to support you, God Val."

"Please Chris? Just wait? I'll let him know if it amounts to anything, I promise. I—I'm just scared. I'm sorry. I just needed to tell someone, before I go crazy. You're the only one I trust. You and Luca, you're…" she trailed off, looking back at the fountain.

"Everything's going to be fine. Just wait. What hospital are you going to?"

"Sloane-Kettering."

"See, you're already miles ahead,  _if_  something is wrong. Do you want me to come out for the follow up with you? We can pretend like you're back in college and hit the town—"

"No, no. Thank you, so,  _so_  much, but I couldn't ask that. You've got the Rostelecom Cup in less than three weeks, you need to be training. Josef would personally murder me—"

"Bah, Josef loves you—"

"Only because before Luca I was your sometimes voice of reason."

"You just made sure we didn't get caught."

"That's being reasonable!"

"Call it what you want, mon chou. You were still  _just_  as complicit."

Valya laughed. Chris wiped away the remaining tears on her face with his thumb before kissing her on the forehead.

"Come on, let's drop your stuff off, I'm sure Luca's as nervous as a mother hen. What do you say we cause some trouble—just enough to forget there's anything to worry about?"

"What about the Triomphe—"

"We have two days, and besides, have you seen the line up? They're worse than green—"

"Look out Chris, that's how they're going to get you. Don't underestimate the newbies—"

"Not everyone has as strong a debut as you had. If I remember correctly, not even Victor won gold at World's his first season."

"Get on my level," Valya said, striking a ridiculous pose. Chris laughed despite himself, shaking his head.

"I swear, another couple of seasons and you would have been insufferable."

"You'd still love me."

"Ugh, would I have to?"

Valya stuck out her tongue at him. He laughed again, unfazed. "You ready to head back?

"Yeah. Thanks Chris. Really—"

"Shhh, it was nothing. Now I hope you packed something slinky, otherwise you'll have to make do with what I picked out—"

"You  _didn't_."

"I did! I brought the Copenhagen dress! Blame Luca, it was his idea. Come on, we're hitting the town. "

 

_anuary 2017_

Victor waited next to the café door, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He didn't feel the cold, not really. He was too focused on his racing thoughts.

Valya. Valya was home.

And yet he couldn't be happy, not with that nagging pit of fear in his stomach.

_"What diagnosis Chris?"_

God, how had he gotten so out of touch?

He spotted her long before she saw him—she was hard to miss, crossing the square with her coat pulled tightly against the wind, her silver hair streaming behind her. She walked slowly, something in her gait just off.

"Valenka!" he called, running out to meet her. Her eyes widened as she saw him, her mouth falling open.

"Vitya—"

He wrapped her in a bone crushing hug, pressing his face into her hair. She was bony under the thick wool of her coat, her cheekbones sharp under the skin of her face.

"Do you not eat in New York?"

"Victor—"

"Come on, I'll take you out to lunch. You're too thin."

She nodded—he was surprised that she agreed without a fuss. It made the knot in his stomach tighten.

"What about Palkin?"

"For lunch? Are you mad?"

"We're celebrating!"

"No, Vitya, somewhere reasonable."

They settled on a corner café a few streets away that served big open sandwiches and steaming mugs of black tea. Victor stared at her while she sipped her tea, her shoulders pulled together against the cold that still clung to her in the shop. She seemed to be eating more for his benefit than for her own, taking little bites when she knew he was looking.

"So," he said finally, breaking the silence. She set her cup down on its saucer perhaps harder than she meant to.

"So," she repeated, not meeting his eyes. They sat in tense silence fore a minute more, Victor's eyes boaring into her.

"I'm sorry—"

"Sorry—"

They spoke at the same time, both stumbling to get the words out.

"God Victor, it was stupid, I can't believe we've gone this long," she broke off, pressing her eyes shut as she hunched over, her face gone pale.

"Zoleste—what is it, what's wrong?" Victor asked, on his feet and staring at her with wide eyes.

"Nothing Vitya. It's gone," she said through gritted teeth.

"You're a terrible liar."

"Da, da," she replied, her voice cracking. She doubled over, her breathing harsh. Victor rubbed soothing circles on her back, panic rising in his throat.

Valya whimpered, teeth clenched. "My pocket, there's medicine, I forgot—"

He patted desperately at the pockets of her jacket until he found a single yellow vial of pills, three-fourths of the way empty. He pushed a glass of water into her hand before struggling with the pill bottle, his hands once more clumsy, unsure—foreign against its plastic surface.

"Victor—"

"Here," he said, pouring the pills into his palm. "One? Two?"

"Just one. Please."

Victor dropped the pill into her palm and she swallowed it before taking a sip of her water, her face still contorted. Victor stared at the pills in his palm, pills he thought he'd never see again.

"Thank you," she said softly, sitting up fully, shoulders still tight with pain.

Victor didn't want to look at her, her gaunt face and hollowed cheeks, the way she'd become all right angles. The way her leg just  _stopped_  under her skirt, replaced with metal and plastic, where they'd halted the cancer the first time.

 _The first time._ Victor swallowed hard. "How long?"


	7. Deja Vu

_November 2010_

“I’m _fine_ Vitya,” Valya said, getting gingerly to her feet after a particularly nasty fall. Her palms were skinned, red, and bleeding.

“You’re not fine.”

“I want to try again, I nearly had it—”

“You’re bleeding stupid. Come on,” Victor said, coming to a stop next to her. She sighed, rolling her eyes before setting out for the exit, only to cry out as she put weight on her right foot.

“What is it? Did you twist your ankle? Here, come on, I’ll tow you,” Victor said, taking her hands and skating backwards until he was able to step out of the rink. She followed, her face screwed up against the pain. He helped her to the bench before stooping to untie her skate.

“It’s swollen,” Victor said as he pulled her skate off as gently as possible. Valya didn’t say anything, just whimpered.

“Victor! What are you two still doing here?” Yakov asked as he entered the rink, Georgi in tow.

“We were just going over her free skate—”

“What did I tell you about overtraining?” Yakov said, spotting her swollen ankle. He swooped in, taking her ankle in his hands and prodding gingerly.

“I nearly landed the triple axel,” she said through gritted teeth. Yakov looked up at her, his face stormy.

“I thought we were forgetting the triple. Can you bend it little one?”

“A little. It’s just a sprain—”

“Just a sprain? Two weeks before the Trophee Eric Bompard?”

“I’ll be fine, I promise—” Valya assured him, but he wasn’t listening, already turned to Victor.

“Take her to the emergency room and have her get a scan—”

“I’m fine, really, I promise!”

“Call me as soon as you hear back,” Yakov said, not breaking eye contact with Victor, who nodded.

“Da. Come on zoleste,” he said, scooping her up into his arms.

“Put me down Vitya!”

 

 

January 2017

Yuri paced back and forth in the Neva apartment, phone in hand. Makka watched glumly from the couch as he made his way back and forth in front of the apartment’s windows.

He’d already tried calling twice. He knew he was prone to bought of anxiousness, but this seemed—different. Victor seemed different. He’d never seen him so agitated or short tempered.

It had been nearly three hours without a call or a text, three hours of Yuri pacing the length of the living room under Makka’s watchful eye. He sighed before dialing once more, nervously fidgeting with his glasses as he listened to the ringing of the phone.

“Pick up, pick up, pick up,” he chanted.

“Yes?” answered a voice he didn’t recognize. It was soft and undeniably female.

“I must have dialed the wrong number—”

“No, no—this is Victor’s phone. Are you Yuri?”

“Yes, uh—where’s Victor?”

“He’s uh, he’s—”

“Is he okay?”

“Umm. Physically yes. He’s a bit upset.”

“Where are you, I’ll be right there?” Yuri scribbled the address on a scrap of paper as he slipped his coat on, ear still pressed to the phone.

“Thank you, I was looking for your number when you called.”

“Where is Victor?”

“He’s in the bathroom. I haven’t been able to get him to come out and they told me off for shouting through the door.”

“I’m guessing you told him about the diagnosis then?”

“ _God_ , did Christophe tell everyone and their mother? I’m going to kill him when I see him next.”

“There’s going to be a line, apparently.”

 

 

She was easy enough to spot as Yuri climbed out of the cab—Yurio had been right, she could have been his doppelganger. He did a double take when he spotted her through the window—it was like seeing Victor at 19 on the television, before he’d cut his beautiful long hair. Her face was sharper though, thinner, her eyes downcast. She sat at the café table alone, turning Victor’s phone over and over in her hands.

She was 23—according to her profile on Wikipedia. He’d found himself searching for her in the ride over, partially for something to keep him from focusing on Victor’s distress and getting himself worked up and partially out of shear curiosity.

It wasn’t hard to find a video of her, of a girl that looked so much like him he had to check that it wasn’t indeed Victor in one of his more risqué costumes. Yet the moment she moved he saw the difference—whereas Victor was graceful and expressive and emotional she was poised and intense and precise. She reminded him of Yurio with the careful artistry of her movement.

She looked up as he entered and stood, one hand still gripping the table. Her eyes were wide, glistening. “He won’t come out—I, I don’t know what to do.”

“I’ll talk to him. It’ll all be fine,” Yuri said, doing his best to sound soothing. She was trembling, biting her lip so hard he was scared she’d draw blood. She nodded, sitting back down.

“Thank you,” she said, so quietly he nearly didn’t hear. When he turned back she had gone back to turning his phone over and over in her hands.

 

 

November 2010

“Da, she’s sleeping now. Something popped up on the x-ray, they’re not sure what it is yet. They think it might be just from the swelling but they want her to come in for another scan. No—they gave her a brace and some medicine for the swelling. They said she could try going back in a few days if she was feeling better. Yeah, I’ll tell her. Do svidaniya,” Victor said, hanging up the phone. He crossed to Valya’s room and leaned in the doorway.

She was fast asleep, her ankle propped up on a mound of pillows. Her brows were furrowed, her hand a fist around the covers. Makka was sprawled next to her, her head tucked under Valya’s arm. He crossed to the bed and sat, hesitating only a moment before running a hand through her silver hair. She didn’t wake—it had been a very long day.

Sleep tugged heavily at his eye lids—still he refused to go to sleep, instead stroking her hair. The doctor hadn’t seemed too worried about whatever it was on the scan—but he was. He remembered his mother’s gaunt face, remembered the stiff way that she’d moved that last time—he knew there was a chance that it was genetic, that one of both of them could have it as well.

Valya had asked him if he was worried, in the hospital, while they were sitting in the exam room waiting for the results. He’d lied. There was not reason to worry her until—unless. _Unless_ it became a problem. Instead he’d just laughed and promised to stop afterwards for a treat, even though it was mid-competition season.

She’d taken his hand and given it a gentle squeeze, but that was all.

It was a long time before he went to bed, too caught up in memorizing her features. She looked like Mama, the way he liked to remember her.


	8. Diagnosis

January 2017

Yuri pushed open the bathroom door, a knot in his stomach.

“Victor?”

“Yuri?” Victor replied, his voice muffled. He sniffed. Yuri crossed to the stall in which he sat and knocked gently. There was the sound of Victor fumbling with the lock and then the door swung open. Victor sat on the toilet, his eyes red from crying, his hair mussed and pushed back from his forehead in agitation.

“Oh Victor,” Yuri said, pulling him into a tight embrace. Victor didn’t say anything for a long time, instead just clinging to Yuri as he sobbed, the noise broken and torn from his throat. Yuri rubbed soothing circles into his back, his lips pressed into Victor’s hair.

“It came back,” Victor said, his voice catching in his throat. He fisted his hands in the back of Yuri’s coat, trying to steady his breathing.

“It’ll be okay, Victor. They’ve come a long way in the last few years—”

“She doesn’t want treatment. She’s just going to—to—” he broke off in a fresh wave of tears.

 

November 2016

She didn’t cry when she got the diagnosis. She knew the doctor had expected her to, knew what she was going to say as soon as she’d pulled the box of Kleenex from the shelf behind her and set it on the desk. But she wasn’t sad or angry or any of the things she knew she _should_ be. She was just numb.

She looked away as the doctor began to go over the various treatment options—they hadn’t changed enough in five and a half years to warrant more than half her attention—she knew that they’d try radiation first, and then chemotherapy. After that they’d try and remove as much of the tumors as they could, focusing on those in her pelvis and ribs before those in her femur.

Even then, she knew, she’d be on the low end of survival stats—at fifteen it had been a fifty-fifty shot. Now she knew it was somewhere in the thirties, maybe less.

She wrapped a lock of hair around her finger, running her thumb over the strands. She’d barely cut it since the chemo last time.

She’d have to shave it before, this time. She remembered the terrible feeling of it falling out in handfuls, the way she had looked in the mirror and found a stranger’s face.

The doctor had stopped talking, her eyes fixed on Valya. “Do you have someone you can call? Someone, family—your brother?”

She shook her head, looking away. The mention of Victor was the only thing that threatened to bring tears to her eyes.

 

 

November 2016

It seemed to take Chris forever to answer her call. She tried not to watch the connecting icon on her computer, tried not to look at the bag from the pharmacist sitting on her desk, tried not to look at her phone, which still had Victor and Makka as her lock screen and was currently lighting up with alerts.

She was about to hang up when Chris’s face popped into view, his bangs clipped back and his glasses perched on his nose.

“What’s up Val?”

“I know its before the Grand Prix and I know how busy you are with training, but, do you think it would be okay if I came up for the weekend?”

“This weekend? I mean of course, but this seems a bit spur of the moment for you. Is everything okay? How’d the follow up go?”

Valya stared at his concerned face, his furrowed brows and eyes full of apprehension and something in her broke. She whimpered, a fat tear slipping down her face as she looked away.

“Val—oh. Can you come sooner? I don’t want you to be alone and you know with the Grand Prix—or, have you talked to Victor? Maybe you both can come over, I’m sure Katsuki would be fine for a few days—”

“No, I’m not telling him over the phone. I have tickets to the Rostelecom, I’ll just have to find time then.”

“You shouldn’t wait, Val, not with something like this.”

“I just can’t Chris, that can’t be the first thing I say to him in a year. Like ooh hey, by the way, remember that cancer you still beat yourself up over—yeah it’s back and spreading. Let’s see how many times I can effectively dismantle your life.”

“You’re being ridiculous, how many times do I have to tell you, none of this is your fault. Not the cancer, not how Victor took it—you need to focus on you and _you_ need your brother, no matter how much you pretend not to.”

“I’ll tell him in Moscow—It’s like a week away. Just—”

“I know, keep my mouth shut until then.”

 

 

January 2017

It was a long time before Victor was calm enough to leave the bathroom. Valya had thought about just leaving—giving the waitress Victor’s phone to hang on to until he got back to the table and just being done with it for the time being. She’d already checked for flights to Switzerland—she wasn’t sure if she was looking to tell Chris off for throwing her into this whole mess or thank him for facilitating her and Victor’s reunion, however flawed, or if she just wanted to curl up on his couch with him and Minka and just cry.

She ended up just staring at the table, her knuckles white against the chair as she held herself in place. Every so often she could hear Victor’s voice over the soft jazz that played in the café. It hurt.

She changed her mind, she was definitely going to tell Chris off—

She hadn’t noticed Yuri and Victor’s approach, caught up in imagining exactly what she was going to tell Chris. Victor’s face was puffy and red from crying and Yuri’s—Yuri’s was harder to read. He seemed set on something, his brow determined.

“Victor, I’m sorry—”

“Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? We’re making Katsudon,” Yuri asked, his arm locked around Victor’s waist. Victor wouldn’t look at her.

“What?”

“It’ll be fun. We can all catch up.”

“I, umm—”

“Come on, don’t you want the opportunity to grill your brother’s fiancée? I, personally, would _love_ to see some embarrassing baby pictures.”

“I, uh—I’ll have to stop and get my laptop.”

"It's settled then. I'll get us a cab."


	9. Move

January 2017

“You’ve been staying at _Lilia’s_?” Victor asked as they came to a stop outside his childhood apartment.

“Sometimes I stay at the Rachmaninoff. Depends on how worked up Yurio is. Lilia’s got him on a tight leash.”

“I can’t believe she didn’t tell me—”

“It’s not like you call.”

“I—”

“And she doesn’t know and you’re not telling her.”

“You can’t—” Victor began, but she was already ducking out of the cab and jogging up the walkway. Victor slumped back in his seat.

“She drives me insane,” he mumbled. To his surprise, Yuri laughed.

“She’s your _sister_.”

 

 

January 2010

“I don’t get why we have to move. It’s going to take me twice as long to walk to school now,” Valya said, sitting cross legged in the moving truck as Victor filled it with carefully labeled boxes.

“We’ll be closer to the rink. You can sleep in a whole extra ten minutes.”

“We’re further from the studio.”

“A little exercise never hurt anyone.”

“I still think we should just stay—I mean, I know you just turned eighteen but do you know how to cook or do laundry or pay tax? What if something goes wrong? What if we forget to pay rent or turn all the laundry pink or you accidentally poison us with borscht or—”

“You’re freaking out for no reason. Everything is going to be perfectly fine.”

Valya bit her lip, but didn’t respond. Victor looked so determined—his brows furrowed, his waist length hair tied up in a bun on top of his head. He was so excited to move out, so pleased with yet another of his big surprises—he’d only told Yakov this morning that they were going, that he’d bought his own apartment in the banks of the Neva for he and Valya.

Their screaming match is what had awoken her, though it was particularly one sided—Yakov dominated the conversation, his face ruddy. She’d crossed to the kitchen, still rubbing her eyes, Makka trailing behind her to find Victor surrounded by boxes and Yakov, pacing and yelling.

“It’s one thing for you to move out, it’s another for you to take Valenka with you,” Yakov stormed, though Victor seemed unconcerned.

“She’s my sister, she’s my responsibility. Of course she’s coming with me.”

“You can’t even look after yourself! This is utterly selfish of you—”

“We’re moving down the street, I’m not giving her to the gulag.”

“We’re moving?” Valya asked, her eyes wide. Victor beamed.

“Surprise!”

She didn’t know how to tell him that she didn’t want to move, that she’d miss living with Yakov and Lilia, that this was _home_.

 

 

January 2017

Valya slipped her key back into her jacket pocket as she stepped into the apartment. It hadn’t changed much from her childhood. The lights were on, the stereo blasting something angsty that she vaguely recognized. She could see Yurio sprawled out on the couch, Potya sleeping on his chest.

She crossed to the couch and mussed his hair fondly.

“What the hell was that for?” he spat, but she rolled her eyes as he fixed his hair. He was all talk.

“Is Lilia going to be back late tonight?”

“How should I know? She’s out with Yakov, they’re discussing choreography.”

“God, I hope not,” she called from her room, grabbing her laptop and stuffing it into a bag.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I’ll tell you when you’re older.”

“You’re the worst.”

“Oh yeah? That’s a high bar,” she said, crossing once more to stand behind the couch. “How’d ballet go?”

“Fine. We mainly worked on flexibility.”

“It’s nice she gave you a light day,” she said and then stopped, pulling a face. Yurio gave her a look.

“Why are you making that face?” he asked, sitting up and disturbing Potya. She dug in her pocket and pulled out the yellow vial and shook two pills into her hand. She tossed them back and Yurio passed her his half-drunk soda to wash them down.

“Thanks.”

“You’ve been taking a lot of those.”

“Oh yeah. I’m an addict. But you know what they say about knowing that you are.”

“You’re so weird,” he said, shaking his head. “Do you want to see a movie or something? I’m tired of being stuck in the apartment.”

“Yes, except I’ve been roped into having dinner with Victor and Katsuki.”

“Wait, you know Victor?”

“Yeah? He’s my brother. We look like practically the same person.”

“Really?”

“You’re lucky you’re pretty.” Yurio gave her a dirty look. She laughed, but it was without humor. “I’ll bring you leftovers.”

“What are they making?”

“I don’t know. Katsu—”

“Katsudon? Wait, I’m going to grab my jacket!”

 

 

The Neva apartment was bigger than she’d guess, with four bedrooms, a large kitchen and living room and two bathrooms. It smelled of fresh paint and had large windows that overlooked the river. Makka bounded right inside, eager to explore, but Valya hung back, clutching a box to her chest like a lifeline.

“Here, come on, I’ll give you the full tour!” Victor said, setting his box down in the kitchen. Valya followed him, still hanging on to her own box.

“So, here’s the living room—the couch is on backorder and I still have to find more bookcases. Then there’s the office—I thought you could use it to do you r homework if you wanted more quiet than the kitchen, and then a guest room. I was going for a sleek, minimalistic feel. My bedroom is down at the end. I’m still working on the design. And then—close your eyes. Put down the box and then close your eyes!”

Valya took a deep breath and did what she was told. Victor took her hand and lead her into the last bedroom.

“Okay. If you don’t like it we can redo it, but—open your eyes!”

The room was a bright, robin’s egg blue and dominated by a large, black, four poster bed hung with white curtains. The room had enormous bay windows that overlooked the Neva and a wall of bookcases waiting to be filled. A desk sat in one of the bay windows, freshly stocked with paper and paints. Valya turned to Victor, who was waiting, his face betraying his apprehension.

“Do you like it?”

She buried her face in his chest, hugging him as tightly as she could. “Thank you Vitenka. It’s perfect.”

He beamed and hugged her back, humming a happy tune to himself.

 

January 2017

“Apparently katsudon is a big draw,” Valya said as she slipped back into the cab. She was moving gingerly, her face set. Yurio climbed into the front seat without a word to either Yuri or Victor. She could feel Victor seething in the seat next to her, though he said nothing for the rest of the ride to the Neva apartment.

Still, he helped her from the cab, noting the way she leaned on him instinctually. Yurio bounded ahead with Yuri, loudly complaining about how cold he was. Victor wrapped an arm around her and helped her up the walkway, pressing a kiss to the top of her head as he did so. He took a shaky breath, tightening his grip, afraid that she would just disappear.

“Come on, it’s freezing!” Yurio called, hopping from foot to foot in front of the doorway.

“You’re the one who refuses to wear a proper jacket,” Valya said, nodding at his thin leopard print bomber.

“Just hurry up!”

Victor tossed Yuri the keys, which he caught and unlocked the door. Yurio practically ran inside, Yuri following after a quick glance back at Victor. By the time they reached the entranceway, Yuri and Yurio had already gone upstairs. Victor stopped, arm still wrapped around her, his jaw tight.

“Valya—my Valenka,”

“Vitya—”

“No, just listen. My baby sister. My _only_ baby sister. You know I love you more than the world, da?”

She nodded. Victor sighed. “I know it’s hard and you’re tired and I’m so so so sorry that I wasn’t there for you this past year—”

“I’m not.”

“What?” Victor asked, devastated. Valya backtracked.

“I saw you, on TV, with Yuri. You were so happy—I’ve never seen you so happy. You two are made for each other and—and you wouldn’t have had that unless you’d gone away. And you would have never gone away if I was in St Petersburg, especially if you’d known I was sick.”

“Even still. You’re my family. My _whole_ family. I can’t lose you Valenka. I can’t. You—you just have to try. I know you, you can beat this.”

“It’s less than 30% odds—”

“I don’t care, you’re one in a million. If you could land that triple axel, you can _do_ this. I’ll be with you, every step of the way.”

It took him a moment to realize that she was crying. “Oh—oh zoleste! What is it? Are you in pain—”

“I don’t want to die in a hospital, Vitya. I don’t want to die someone else.”

She clung to him, her face pressed into his chest. For the first time she allowed herself to sob, to let all of her fear and sadness crash over her. He held her, rubbing soothing circles into her back as he pressed his forehead to her hair. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to make himself believe it as much as her.

“You won’t. You’re going to be fine. I’m here zoleste. I’m right here.”


End file.
